Invasion of The Body Snatchers

handed drinks around. We each took a sip, then Jack said, 'That's exactly what I think, and so does Theodora. And the thing is, I didn't tell her anything about my impressions. I let her look at that thing, and form her own opinion, just like I did with you, Miles. And she's the one who first made the comparison with the medallions; we saw them making medallions once, on our honeymoon in Washington.' Jack sighed, and shook his head. 'We've talked and thought about this all day, Miles; then decided to call you.'

'You tell anyone else?'

'No.'

'Why didn't you call the police?'

'I don't know.' Jack looked at me, a little smile around his mouth. 'You want to call them?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

Then I smiled, too. 'I don't know. But I don't.'

'Yeah.' Jack nodded in agreement, then we all sat there for several moments, sipping our drinks. Jack rattled the ice idly in his glass and, staring down at it, said slowly, 'I have a feeling that this is a time to do something more than call the police. That this isn't a time to pass the buck, and let someone else do the worrying. What exactly could the police do? This isn't just a body, and we know it. It's' – he shrugged, his face sombre – 'something terrible. Something… I don't know what.' He looked up from his glass, glancing around at us all. 'I only know, and somehow I'm certain of this, that we mustn't make a mistake here. That there is some one thing – the wise thing, the single correct thing, the one and only thing to do – and if we fail to do it, if we guess wrong, something terrible is going to happen.'

I said, 'Do what, for instance?'

'I don't know.' Jack turned away to stare out the window for a moment. Then he looked back at us, and smiled a little. 'I have a terrible urge to… call the President at the White House direct, or the head of the Army, the FBI, the Marines, or the Cavalry, or something.' He shook his head in wry, smiling amusement at himself, then the smile faded. 'Miles, what I mean is, I want somebody – exactly the right person, whoever he is – to realize from the very start how important this is. And I want him, or them, to do whatever should be done, without a mistake. And the thing is that whoever I got in touch with, if he'd even listen to or believe me, might be exactly the wrong person, somebody who'd do exactly the worst thing possible. Whatever that might be. But I do know this isn't something for the local police. This is – ' He shrugged, realizing he was repeating himself, and stopped talking.

'I know,' I said. 'I have the same feeling, the feeling that the world better hope we handle this right.' In medicine sometimes, on a puzzling case, an answer or a clue will pop up out of nowhere; the subconscious mind at work, I suppose. I said, 'Jack, how tall are you?'

'Five-ten.'

'Exactly?'

'Yeah. Why?'

'How tall would you say the body downstairs is?'

He looked at me for a moment, then said, 'Five-ten.'

'And what do you weigh?'

'One forty.' He nodded. 'Yeah, just about what that body downstairs weighs. You've hit it; it's my size and build. Doesn't especially look like me, though.'

'Or anyone else. You got an ink pad in the house?'

He turned to his wife. 'Have we?'

'A what?'

'An ink pad. The kind you use for rubber stamps.'

'Yes.' Theodora got up and crossed the room to a desk. 'There's one in here somewhere.' She found and brought out an ink pad, and Jack went over, took it, then opened another drawer and brought out a sheet of stationery.

I went over to the desk and so did Becky. Jack inked the ends of all five fingers of his right hand, then held out his hand to me. I took it, then pressed the fingers, carefully rolling each one, on the sheet of paper, getting a full set of clean, sharp prints. Then I picked up stamp pad and paper. 'You girls want to come?' I nodded at the door.

They looked at each other; they didn't want to go back to that billiard table, and they didn't want to stay up here waiting, either. Becky said, 'No, but I'm going to,' and Theodora nodded.

Downstairs, Jack turned on the light over the billiard table. It swung a little, and I reached out to the shade to steady it. But my fingers trembled, and I only made it worse. The shade still swung in a tiny half-inch arc, the light spilling off over the edge of the table, then retreating to the open eyes of the body, leaving the smooth forehead in semi-dark for an instant. It gave you the impression that the body was moving a little, and I picked up the right wrist, concentrating on that, not looking at the face. I inked the ends of all five fingers, then I laid the sheet of paper containing Jack's fingerprints on the wide table ledge, beside the body's right hand. I brought the hand up, laid it on the white sheet, and rolling each finger, I took an impression of them all, directly under Jack's prints, then lifted the hand from the paper.

Becky actually moaned when we saw the prints, and I think we all felt sick. Because it's one thing to speculate about a body that's never been alive, a blank. But it's something very different, something that touches whatever is primitive deep in your brain, to have that speculation proved. There were no prints; there were five absolutely smooth, solidly black circles. I wiped the ink off the fingers fairly well, and we all bent over, huddled in a circle under the swinging light, and looked at the darkened ends of those fingers. They were smooth as a baby's cheek, and Theodora murmured quietly, 'Jack, I'll be sick,' and he turned to grab her – she was bending at the waist – then helped her upstairs.

Sitting in the living-room again, I shook my head, and said to Jack, 'You've got the word for it, all right. It's a blank; unfinished, and still waiting for the final impression.'

He nodded. 'What'll we do? You got any ideas?'

'Yeah' – I sat looking at him for a moment. 'But it's only a suggestion, and if you don't want to go through with it, nobody'll blame you, certainly not me.'

'What is it?'

'Remember, this is only a suggestion.' I leaned forward on the davenport, forearms on my knees, and now I turned to Theodora. 'And if you don't think you can take this,' I said to her, 'you'd better not try it, I'm warning you.' I looked at Jack again. 'Leave it where it is, down on that table. Tonight you'll go to sleep; I'll give you something to take.' I glanced at Theodora – 'But you stay awake; don't sleep for an instant. Every hour, if you can do this, I want you to go downstairs and look at that – body. If you see any hint of a change, hurry upstairs and wake Jack up, right away. Get him out of the house – both of you get out right away – and come right down to my place.'

Jack looked at Theodora for a moment, then he said quietly, 'I want you to say no, if you don't think you can go through with that.'

She sat biting gently at her lip, staring at the rug. Then she looked up, first at me, then turned to Jack. 'What would it… start looking like? If it started to change?'

No one answered, and after a moment she looked down at the rug, nibbling her lip again, and didn't repeat the question. 'Would Jack wake up all right?' Theodora looked at me. 'Could I wake him any time?'

'Yes. A slap on the face, and he'll wake right up. Now, listen; even if nothing happens, wake him up if you find you can't stand it. You can both come down to my place for the rest of the night then, if you want.'

She nodded, and stared at the rug again. Finally she said,' I guess I could.' She looked up at Jack, frowning.

'As long as I know I can wake him any time, I guess I could.'

'Couldn't we stay with her?' Becky said.

I shrugged. 'I don't know. But I don't think so. I think just the people who live here ought to be here; I'm not sure it'll work otherwise. I don't know why I say that, though; it's just a hunch, a feeling. But I think only Jack and Theodora should be here.'

Jack nodded, and after glancing at Theodora to confirm this, said, 'We'll try it.'

We sat then, and talked some more – quite a while, in fact – staring down at the tiny lights of the town in the